


Where Wise Mechs Fear to Tread

by Exactlywhat



Series: Wise Mechs [2]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exactlywhat/pseuds/Exactlywhat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had all been banished. By Sentinel Prime or their commanders, it didn't matter. They had been left alone on that tiny, out-of-the-way moon base, left to die or live. Nobody cared which. Then Sentinel died, along with most of his command element, and Optimus Prime is left with the task of choosing new mechs to help him lead. Who better than those who survived alone for so long?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

WHERE WISE MECHS FEAR TO TREAD

Chapter 1  
Word Count: 2782

In Which Prime is Introduced to the Pit, and the Visitors Are Confused

“Welcome to Autobot Base 84G1-07MVE-VR5E, Sir,” the black and white Praxian standing at attention rattled off to the Prime in front of him. “Autobot Tactician and Commander of this base, Prowl, reporting, Sir.”

“At ease, Prowl,” Optimus Prime said, slightly amused. Nobot back on Cybertron was as strict as this mech seemed to be. Then again, most of them knew him as Orion Pax, and getting the Matrix and becoming Optimus Prime didn't change much. “Thank you for coming to meet me personally.”

“It was no trouble at all, Prime,” the black and white mech responded, still expressionless. “I must admit, inspections from the Prime are very rare.” 

“Well, this is not just a routine inspection,” the Prime said as his optics skated over the inside of the courtyard where the shuttle had been put down, examining what he could of the base and offering no more information as to what, exactly, this visit was. Prowl didn't ask.

“Very well, Sir. If you will follow me?”

Prime, Ironhide, and the other three guards followed as Prowl led the way into the base.

It was quiet. A few mechs wandered the halls. They all stared at Prowl's following as they passed, but said nothing. 

A few breems into their walk, that all changed. The roar of high-performance engines filled the halls. Prowl, as soon as he heard it, flattened himself to the wall. Slightly confused, the Prime and his guards did the same. A yellow blur sped past, followed by a red.

The red blur slowed for a moment, transformed, gave a snappy salute, shouted, “Welcome to the Pit, sir!” and took off again. 

Then the loud blare of sirens made itself known, and a chartreuse ambulance careened around the corner and revved loudly as it sped past, chasing after the red and yellow blurs. 

Prowl vented heavily as he pushed off the wall and continued walking as though nothing had happened. The five mechs behind him followed, very confused. 

::Prime... What is this place?:: Ironhide commed his leader. 

::A little base on the outskirts of the solar system. I found them in the records some time ago and became curious.::

::Yeah, caught that. But... this place ain't no ordinary base, is it?::

::You are correct in that assumption. This base is very far out of the way, and rather unimportant. Sentinel Prime used it as a... sort of banishment. Most of the mechs here are troublemakers, don't play well with others, or simply angered or annoyed my predecessor. He intended for them to offline out here, alone and uncared for. However, they survived, and succeeded beyond what anyone hoped for.::

::How so?::

::Decepticons avoid this sector at all costs.::

::Umm...::

:Wow! Ah'm flatter'd ya think so highly of us! Hey! Prowler!:: a loud, bright voice suddenly interjected, and the Prime and his bodyguard suddenly became aware of another person on their supposedly private comm line. 

::What, Jazz?:: the not-quite cold voice of Prowl almost snarled, if a snarl were possible with such a monotone voice. 

::Th' Prime here thinks we're successful! He thinks we did'a good job!::

::What- Jazz! Get out of his private comm line!:: the base commander commanded, suddenly realizing what he had been sucked into. ::I apologize, Prime. Jazz-::

::No, it is okay,:: the Prime quickly reassured, glad that his battle mask hid his smirk. ::I know what this place was to Sentinel, and the general reasons as to why you are all here.::

There was a long pause, before Jazz snickered. “Knowin' an' underdstandin' are two very diff'rent things, Prime,” he laughed, and the Prime and his guards whirled around to see a sleek silver bot with a twinkling visor lounging against the wall behind them. 

“Jazz, are you not on duty right now?” the Praxian at what had been the head of the group asked calmly, golden optics shimmering coldly. Jazz just grinned. 

“Nah, traded off wit' Air Raid. He's on punishm'nt detail, 'n Silverbolt want'd him t' run 'n extra monitor shift.”

“Then go catch Ratchet before he murders the Twins. Now, please.”

“Aww!” the silver mech, but did as the base commander ordered and loped down the hall in the direction the red and yellow blurs, and the chartreuse medic, had taken. The Praxian watched him go, and once he had turned the corner, looked over his shoulder and doorwing to the mechs behind him. 

“Let's continue, shall we?”

Slightly shell-shocked, the bots followed the black and white. 

“Um... Prowl, if I may...?”

“Yes, Prime?”

“Is this...”

Prowl shot a wry look over his shoulder. “If you are going to ask if this is how the average day here progresses, then the answer is yes. More or less. Generally speaking, Ratchet is red and white, not chartreuse, and the Twins, either one, will stop at nothing when they are on the run. However, Sideswipe apparently thought it prudent to welcome you to the Pit, Sir.”

“The... The Pit?”

“The troops' name for this base. I believe it was Ratchet who called it thus when he first arrived, and the name stuck.” Prowl smirked. “If you will come this way, Sir, I believe that you would enjoy some energon before the inspection is started in full. It is a long journey from anywhere to here.”

“Ya've got that right,” Ironhide mumbled under his exvents. The Prime shot him a look, which the hulking black mech ignored. 

The group of mechs entered the commissary to see... a couple rather out-of-the-ordinary things. 

One, there was a big, gray box simply sitting in the place of one of the booths. Everyone seemed to be deliberately avoiding looking at it, as well as giving it a wide berth. . The newcomers kept sneaking fleeting glances at it, wondering why, exactly, there was a space around it that absolutely no one would enter. 

Two, a large red, white, and black mech was holding another, smaller, red, white, and black mech in the air by his scruff bar. The smaller mech was getting a lecture by the larger, all the while holding his arms crossed tightly over his chassis and trying to retain as much dignity as possible, while his sensory horns sparked blue and his pedes dangled feet above the ground. 

Three, a posse of minibots were working at trying to get something out of one of the vents in the walls. Rather unsuccessfully trying, if their expressions were anything to go by. 

Four, a red and white visored mech was happily examining the internal workings of the arm of a massive red, orange, blue, and silver bot with strange wings and an odd helm protrusion. Eight other bots sat around them, seemingly separated into two groups, all of them apparently used to one of their number examining the uninjured insides of another. 

Five, a red, white, and green mech with flashing helm fins sat alone at a table, tinkering with a bundle of something. Everyone was giving him a wide berth, even wider than the strange gray box, and casting nervous looks in his direction. 

Prowl vented as he entered. 

“Wait here, please. It will be safe to enter in a moment.”

Wondering why it wasn't safe at that moment, the five bots waited. Prowl stalked into the room. 

He headed first to the minibots. 

“What has gotten stuck in the vents this time?”

“Some weird robot thing,” a small yellow bot said, before being cut off by a slightly larger red bot with some sort of barrel on his shoulder.

“Forgive my intrusion, Bumblebee, but it is not just 'some weird robot thing'. It is a highly advanced surveillance and maintenance drone which, once programmed properly, will be a great help around the base. I-”

“Perceptor, can you get it out?”

“-understand that... Perhaps?”

“Do so. Employ the minibots' help as you see fit. They can fit in the vents.” 

Prowl turned, ignoring the protests of said minibots, and glared at the gray box. “Mirage! Hound! Trailbreaker! No interfacing in the commissary! How many times have I told you? Everyone knows just what’s happening behind that hologram and forcefield of yours.”

The gray box shimmered away at the end of Prowl's speech, revealing a standard booth with benches, and a slightly dented and scratched green mech, whose fans were running rather louder and harder than would be considered usual or healthy. His servo appeared to be wrapped around nothing above him. A larger, black mech was acting as the green mech's backrest, a smirk on his faceplates, also with fans running hard. 

“Mirage, show yourself.”

A similarly smirking blue and white mech shimmered into existence, showing that Hound's arm had been wrapped around his waist and his servo around the blue mech's spoiler. 

“You three... Just get out. You all have perfectly functional quarters and berths. I suggest you use them.”

Without speaking, the three mechs stood and walked out of the commissary, servos interlinked. 

Prowl turned to the next 'problem'. “First Aid, you are to conduct repairs in the Med Bay, and the last time I checked, this is the commissary, not the Med Bay.”

“Him First Aid not do repairs. Him just look,” the oddly shaped bot with his arm plating open said. 

“Mm hmm,” First Aid murmured as he poked something. Prowl scowled. 

“Nevertheless. First Aid, please move this to the Med Bay.”

For a long moment, the red and white bot didn't move away from the other mech. Then he vented and pulled the armor back over the exposed wires. “Come on, Swoop,” he said brightly as he stood. Swoop stood with him, as well as a few of the other bots around them. 

They left, and Prowl turned to the two red, white, and black mechs. “Inferno, what is wrong now?”

“Red was on shift fer three orn straight,” the larger mech rumbled, sending a soft glare at the smaller. 

Prowl vented. “Red Alert, take a break. No one is going to attack. Inferno, set Red Alert down.”

The huge firetruck did as instructed. As soon as the smaller sports car's pedes touched the ground, he took off, speeding out the door and down the hall. Inferno took off after him. 

“RED ALERT, YOU GET BACK HERE!” he shouted as he ran down the corridor after the retreating mech. 

Prowl just turned to the last oddity, and stood a short ways away from the tinkering mech. “Wheeljack, is it safe to approach?”

“Hmm... just connect... Ah, sure... I think...”

“Wheeljack!”

The mech jumped. “What?” he yelped, then looked down at his project. “Oh, slag.”

“HIT THE DECK!” someone shouted, and everyone, including the newcomers, who were used to such orders (though those orders usually occurred on the battlefield), dove for the floor. 

A bright flash and a loud bang later, they stood back up. Wheeljack was still sitting in his seat, his front charred and scorched, the table smoking remains in front of him, helm fins flashing happily. 

“Ooh, that was a good one! Did you – I mean, uh, sorry, Prowl.”

Prowl just shook his helm and flicked his doorwings as he stood up. “No more tinkering in the commissary, Wheeljack. Please. Ratchet gets mad enough when it's only you he has to repair. Now go.”

The mech, his helm fins still flashing happily, stood and made his wobbly way to the door, already muttering under his exvents about what went wrong and how to fix it. 

A slightly charred Prowl walked back to the mechs in the door, doorwings stiff behind him. “Sir, it is safe to enter.”

Ironhide stepped hesitantly into the room and glanced around. “You sure about that?”

“As much as I can be, on this base of lunatics. Energon is right over there. Feel free to take as much as you want. Perceptor managed to get a good solar harvester running, and we have plenty of it.”

Slowly, the group of five mechs walked over, while Prowl went to talk to one of the other occupants of the room. Nothing of consequence happened as the newcomers reached the energon dispenser, drew cubes for each of them, and went to find an empty table. 

Refueling was uneventful. Prowl sat and talked to his companion for a time, then moved to the table where the newcomers were seated. 

“Once you have finished,” he announced, “we will continue our tour. I believe the Command Center is our next destination?”

“Very well,” the Prime said as he drained the last of his energon and dispersed the cube. His guards followed suit, draining the last of the rich energon and following the Praxian from the commissary. 

“So...” the Prime started as he walked at Prowl's side. The base commander hid a flinch. 

“Wheeljack blowing himself up is an ornly occurrence. Most of the time, the explosions take place in his lab, which has proper shielding and ventilation systems. What happened today is rather uncommon.”

“Ah.”

::Prime, you're seriously considering these mechs for your command? They're all certifiably insane!::

::By Sentinel's examiners. I believe that anyone would go insane surrounded by mechs such as these, for orn after orn. It is only logical. However, they have survived. Thrived, even. Perhaps a bit of insanity is what this war needs. What the Autobots need.:: The Prime shot a glance over his shoulder and gave a half-wink to his old friend, as a full wink would be rather un-Primely. ::These bots could be the solution to the war.::

::If you say so.::

::I do. And so does the Matrix. It's been sending me happy pulses since we got here.::

Ironhide didn't deign that with a response. For a long stretch of the hallway, nothing happened and nothing was said. Until, once again, the two streaks of Red and Yellow raced past with all the force of a hurricane. Prowl frowned when no medic appeared behind. 

“Prime, I apologize, but I must catch the Twins... Leaving them loose, to their own devices, is not a good idea. I will comm another mech to show you around.”

“Of course.”

A klik later, Prowl nodded. “Bluestreak is on his way. Excuse me.”

And with that, Prowl raced after the Twins, sirens blaring and tyres squealing, with all the force of a solar storm. 

Half a breem later, a slightly smaller, gray Praxian strolled up, grinning widely. 

“Hello, Prime, sirs! Prowl told me that I should show you around, because he had to chase the Twins, 'cause they were loose again. You know, if they spent less time pranking and running, Prowl would be able to get his work done faster, which would let him relax, which would probably make him a little more lenient, but they don't get it no matter how many times I try to explain.” A slightly crestfallen look, which quickly turned back into a smile. Much too quickly for any of the newcomers to speak. “Anyways, they never do stop, and it is amusing, and I think bashing their helms in is a good stress reliever for Ratchet, which is always good, because he did get his nickname for a reason, but – Oh! You wouldn't know his nickname, you don't know him. Everyone calls him the Hatchet, but don't call him that in front of him, because last time someone did that, well, we don't like to talk about it. So, we should get to the Command Center.” The bot finally stopped and looked at the Prime hopefully. 

Blinking at the huge stream of words and abrupt subject change, Optimus Prime, bearer of the Matrix, leader of the Autobot army, High Priest of the planet Cybertron, and the Speaker for Primus, could only say one thing: “I can see why you're named Bluestreak.”

“Oh, yes, everyone always tells me I talk too much, except Prowl. He just listens, which is really nice, and he doesn't care. The Twins don't either, usually, and when they do they're really nice about it, and don't ever yell at me and I’m doing it again, so I’ll just mute it and take you to the Command Center,” the bot rattled off, then smiled innocently, turned, and started walking. Slightly dazed, Prime, Ironhide, and the others followed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
Word Count: 1701

In Which Prowl Makes a Deal and Red Alert is Paranoid

By the time Bluestreak led the Prime and his guards into the Command Center (with the newcomers all a bit dazed), Prowl had caught the Twins and all but tied them to the monitor stations. Sunstreaker sat, grumbling to himself in his corner seat, Sideswipe grinning beside him. 

Bluestreak, Prime, Ironhide, and the three other guards entered to hear Sideswipe whining. 

“Come on, Prowl, the color looked good on him!”

“Nevertheless, Sideswipe, it is-”

“So you admit that you think it looked good! I’m telling!”

“I said no such thing.”

“Sure you did! Didn't he, Sunny?”

“Don't call me that and don't get me involved. You already got me stuck here.”

“Aww, come on! The whole world's against me, and – Oh, hi, Blue,” Sideswipe interrupted himself, leaning over the back of his seat to grin at the gunner. “How are you?”

Bluestreak twitched his doorwings and glanced at Prowl. “Good. I got to escort Prime down here, and he let me talk, and it was pretty cool, and you two really shouldn't mess with Ratchet, you know what happens when you do...”

“Oh, of course, but it's so fun! Isn't it Sunny?” Sunstreaker said nothing, but Sideswipe flinched. “Ouch. Really? You'd do that to your own brother?”

“At the moment, I fail to see how we are at all related.”

“You hurt me, Sunny, right here,” Sideswipe smirked, splaying a servo over his chassis. 

“No, I didn't.”

Sideswipe shrugged and turned back to the other mechs in the room, the newcomers looking a bit stunned. “Prowl, can we go now? Uh... If you let us go, we won't play any pranks for... half an orn.”

“Three.”

“What? No. One.”

“Two.”

“One and a half?”

Prowl tilted his helm to the side and examined the Twin. “Done. Any pranks before that, and you're in the brig for four orns.”

Sideswipe was up and out of the chair in less than a klik, Sunstreaker following at a much more reasonable pace. They left the room without another word. Optimus stared at the base commander, who simply twitched his doorwings in a shrug. 

“If I keep them in here, they will do their utmost to make me crash or to simply annoy me and distract me to the point where I can do no work. However, they will keep a deal such as the one we just made, and it allows me to not worry about their incessant pranks for at least an orn and a half. Or, if one does occur, I will not have to worry for four orns. It is a worthwhile tradeoff.”

“I... I see?”

“Also, they are war builds. We went through several rather terrifying groons when they were first sent here. War builds, as you may know, are programmed for action. Over long periods of quiet and calm, they get fidgety. And the pranks make a better outlet than letting the tension build up until they attack someone, which they have in the past. Paint is, after all, easier to take care of than a mech half offlined.”

“Uh... Yes?”

Prowl simply shook his helm and turned back to the controls and monitors. “As you can see,” he said, gesturing to the four mechs on duty, who had been ignoring the Twin's antics, as well as the Prime, “the Control Center is well managed and always staffed with at least four mechs. Red Alert is often on duty in his Security Center as well, and he can always be counted on to alert us all at the slightest hint of attack.” One of the mechs on duty snorted, but Prowl ignored him. “Very few Decepticons pass through here, but we still keep watch.”

“Yes... Yes, very good.”

Prowl nodded, then turned and walked past the newcomers and out the door. “Where shall we go next, Prime? Generally, we would head for the Med Bay next, but as Ratchet is still in a rather... horrid mood, we should avoid that area for a time.”

The Prime glanced at Ironhide. The black bot shrugged. “Uh... You mentioned the Security Center...”

“Ah, yes. Well, then, come this way, please. And please do not take anything Red Alert says personally. He has... He is not the most normal mech.”

“Not many here are,” the Prime observed, watching as a minibot ran by, stopped by a vent low on the wall, yanked the cover off, and dove in. Prowl didn't give the little green bot a second glance. The Prime and his guard continued to follow the monochromatic Praxian down the halls. 

“No, we are not,” Prowl agreed, glancing over his shoulder at the mechs behind him. “That's why we are here.”

“Yes, I know. Tell me, do you know why everyone is here?”

“I have access to all the personal files of the mechs on base, yes. However, you do not necessarily need them to know why we were sent here. Of the mechs you have already met, for most it should be rather obvious.”

“I suppose I can guess for a few,” the Prime allowed, and at Prowl's prompting glance, he continued. “Mirage... I doubt many commanders liked him wandering around invisible. Hmm. The Twins... Well, they are the Twins. That needs little explanation.”

“Agreed.”

“Red Alert was acting rather...”

“Spastic?” Ironhide threw in, and only shrugged at the glare Optimus sent him. “What? 'S true.”

“Indeed.”

“Jazz... Well... He did tap into our comm link.”

“Yes. He is a saboteur, and a very accomplished one. However, one of his teammates threw a mission, and Jazz was left with the blame. He was put on desk duty, and it did not sit well with him. For a time, before he was sent here, he was a bit glitchy.”

“I see.”

“Yes.”

“I can see why Bluestreak was sent here as well. I doubt many commanders would be tolerant of his ceaseless talking.”

“Actually, the only reason Bluestreak was sent here was because he was just a youngling when I was sent here, and I am, or was, his caretaker. He had already linked to me, and we couldn't break that. So he came along. I am extremely grateful, though, because as you said, few tolerate the babbling. I am grateful in that aspect for the isolation this base provides.”

The Prime stared at the Praxian, almost surprised at the show of emotion. “That is... rather kind of you, Prowl.”

The base commander only nodded humbly, then flicked a doorwing. “Here we are. Red Alert, please open up. The Prime wishes to meet with you.”

“How do you know he's the Prime?” a voice asked sharply from a speaker mounted to the wall near a door. The camera above that same door turned and whirred as it focused on the mechs. 

Prowl sighed. “Red Alert, please do not force me to make it an order. And if that fails, please do not make me call Inferno.”

“Ah'm already in here, Prowl.”

“Ah. Inferno, will you please open the door?”

“No! Inferno, don't do that!” Red Alert screeched, and Optimus Prime resisted the urge to rub his suddenly aching audials. 

With a sigh, the Prime stepped forward so he was standing at Prowl's side, eager to stop this before it (whatever it was) escalated as it threatened to do. “Red Alert. If I show you the Matrix as proof of my being Prime, will you allow us admittance?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, “Maybe.”

A click was heard, then the hiss of hydraulics. The Prime's chest parted. He reached in, and pulled out a glittering, whorled, carved, shining metal object. Instead of actually holding it, it hovered above his palm, though the other bots could sense that there were no magnetics involved in its levitation. Optimus held the Matrix up for the camera's, and Red Alert's, inspection, and after a moment, the door hissed open. 

Red Alert, horns sparking a dim blue, stood in the entryway, the hulking Inferno behind him. He gazed at the relic, then nodded slowly. “There's no denying that is the real Matrix. I am... sorry... for the... eh...”

Prime held up a hand (not the one the Matrix was in), and smiled under his mask. “Understandable. No apology is necessary. It is nice to meet you, Red Alert.”

“... You too?” the Security Director said slowly, hesitantly, a small smile spread over his face, and stepped aside. 

Nodding amicably, after stuffing the Matrix unceremoniously back into his chest, the Prime accepted the invitation and stepped inside, motioning for his mechs to stay outside. Ironhide, with a grunt, did as ordered. Prowl stepped into the room and stood to the side of the door, watching quietly as the Prime looked over the room. 

“This is... very impressive, Red Alert,” the Prime said after a moment, looking over the wall of monitors, the control panels that contained too many touchpads, switches, buttons, and dials to count, and the stacks of datapads and energon cubes in the corners. 

Red Alert just nodded, horns beginning to spark again. Optimus Prime noticed, thankfully, and stepped toward the door. “Thank you, Red Alert, for letting me in. You have my gratitude.”

The Security Director nodded and closed the door behind the Prime and Prowl after they had stepped past the frame. 

Ironhide stared at Prowl. Prowl, clearly understanding what the big black mech was thinking, smiled grimly, and spoke. “I deal with this because I have to. Believe it or not, he's better now than he was before. Most of them are. Now, come with me. Next stop is the supply bay. We shan't spend long there. However, it is a necessary stop.”

“Of course,” Optimus said politely, and they all started on their way again.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
Word Count: 1251

In Which the Cat is Let Out of the Bag and Optimus Visits Ratchet

The Storage Decks, the Prime discovered, were very plain and normal. A network of wide halls with wide, tall doors spaced evenly along the walls. Said walls were also nondescript, plain gray metal with the occasional dent or scrape. The floors were a thick sheet-metal worn smooth (though not slippery) with the passing of many pedes. 

Prowl led them along the halls, never once having to refer to the digital map or locator available to any Autobot on base. He knew these halls without it. Every door he passed was given a name, telling the Prime and his guards what was behind the doors. 

“Medical supplies, medical supplies, wire and rope, lights, cleaning supplies, the 'secret' bar where the Twins hand out their homebrew high-grade, which is officially a spare furniture storage room, Room Beta-13 – do not go in there. Ever. Lights, spare monitors and capacitors, energon-”

“What do you mean, do not go in Room Beta-13?”

Prowl paused for a moment, blinking over his shoulder, his face blank. “Do not go in it. Just... never go in there. As I was saying,” he continued, as though he hadn't been interrupted, “this room stores energon rations for long-distance missions. This is more cleaning supplies, and here's where the paint is kept,” he kept going, every door getting a designation. The Prime followed along, mostly dazed, still puzzling over Room Beta-13.

Eventually, after two joors of Prowl naming doors and leading them through the maze of corridors, they headed back to the entrance. 

Prowl was asking whether or not the Prime found the Storage Decks to be satisfactory when there was a low, quiet creak of straining metal above them. Prowl interrupted himself and looked up, a slightly confused expression spreading over his face.

There was a loud, feline yowl, and klaxons blared to life. Red Alert's voice echoed through the base. “Red alert! Red alert! Decepticon spark signature detected above Storage Deck C!”

“That's where we are,” Ironhide murmured after checking the map. He turned to Prowl, only to see the Autobot already with a gun out (and the guard couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship of the multi-purpose rifle, at the moment equipped with acid pellets) and pointed at the ceiling. The tactician tightened his finger, and a barrage of pellets slammed into the ceiling above them before anyone else could even pull out or activate their weapons. 

The already stressed metal gave way beneath a black felinoid creature. It snarled and lashed out with its sharp, gleaming claws, catching hold of the Prime's audio fin. The Prime jerked, optics opening comically wide, as the cat heaved itself onto his helmet, hissing and spitting and swiping at anyone who dared to get close. The three guards that followed the Prime everywhere shifted nervously, guns ready, but unable to fire on the black felinoid, lest they blow their commander's helm off his shoulders.

Another, golden colored felinoid peered over the edge of the hole in the ceiling, head cocked to the side, blue optics wide and amused. 

Prowl, however, was not amused. “Steeljaw! Get it!”

The gold cat blinked, smiled, and lunged with a yowl, knocking the black felinoid off the Prime's helmet, leaving behind a number of nasty scrapes, which were slowly trickling energon. The two cats fell into a roiling, yowling scramble on the floor, swiping at each other, hissing, spitting, and generally acting like cats who had invaded the other's territory. Prowl sighed and activated his comm., tapping into the basewide public channel. 

::Everyone, the Decepticon infiltrator has been located. Red Alert, please send a couple mechs down here to subdue him. Someone please get down to the brig for guard duty. Ratchet, the Prime sustained minor injuries. Please prepare the Med Bay. Prowl out.::

The Praxian nodded to the Prime. “It is taken care of,” he said as he stepped over the squabbling cats. “Let's get you to the Med Bay.”

The Prime and his guards only followed, slightly shell shocked, as they left the yowling cats behind. A few mechs ran past them in the other direction, but they didn't slow. The hallways passed same as before, nondescript and quickly. 

Until they came to the medic's domain. Someone had taken the time to scratch the glyphs, “Enter at your own risk” above the door. On the door, painted rather sloppily, in a scrawled, jagged hand, were the glyphs, “Unless you're dying or your spark's about to go out, STAY OUT!”

The visitors stared for a long time at the two messages. Prowl waited patiently, optic ridge cocked in amusement. 

To the surprise of all (except, perhaps, Prowl), the door whooshed open. “Well?” The half-chartreuse, half-red-and-white mech said gruffly as he stood, fists on hips, a scowl on his face, and a wet cleaning cloth clenched in one hand. “Why are you just standing around? I haven't got all orn. Get in here.”

The medic stepped aside, allowing the group to enter his lair. Prowl entered slowly, stepping off to the side as soon as he was past the threshold. Ironhide and the guards did so as well, following the base commander's lead. The Prime, however, was not so lucky. Ratchet gestured him to a berth, and he went, albeit reluctantly and cautiously. 

Ratchet immediately set to examining the obvious wounds on his helm, scowling and cursing under his exvents, muttering something about “that pit-slagged cyber-pussy and his lack of common sense.”

Once the gashes had been sealed up, Optimus Prime made to get off the berth, but Ratchet pushed him back down, his scowl deepening. 

“Oh, no you don't. Prime you may be, but this is my Med Bay, and to release you, I’ve got to do a full physical to ensure your health. So you sit your slagging aft back down and hold still.”

The Prime did as told, torn between bafflement, amusement, and frustration. But he still held still, patiently allowing the medic his examination. 

After half a joor of mumbled curses, pokes in uncomfortable places, and dark scowls, the Prime was allowed up. Prowl and the guards waited at the door as Optimus stood, then stopped for a long moment, surprised, before turning to the medic. 

“Thank you. Whatever you did, thank you.”

Ratchet looked positively confused. “What?”

“My knee. It does not hurt anymore.”

“Oh. You had a bit of grit in there. I just cleaned it out. I don't know why you didn't have it done before.”

“'Cause he's a self-sacrificing glitch who don't know when t' see someone about a problem,” Ironhide grumbled as Optimus continued to the door after thanking the medic again. Prowl ignored it, and led them from the room. 

The four mechs followed easily. Ironhide cast a glance at the messages painted and scratched above and on the medic's door. “I don't see why those are there.”

Prowl simply looked at the messages and continued on. “If you are staying for any length of time, you will,” he said simply, then glanced at the visiting Autobot Commander. “It is getting late, Prime. I have quarters set for you and your guards. We shall recharge, and continue the tour and inspection tomorrow, if that is okay with you.”

“It is fine. I will admit, I am exhausted. What is on the schedule for tomorrow?”

“Drilling, formations, the basic examinations of the troops.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

Prowl scowled, but the mechs following him could not see the expression. “You have no idea.”


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
Word Count: 511

Interlude: In Which They Rest

The corridors were quiet as they walked through them. The visitors were edgy. They had seen enough of quiet corridors. Something always came along and ruined that peace. 

Prowl, noticing their twitchiness, smirked slightly. “Not even a orn, and you already act like someone who has been assigned here for groons,” he said, smirk widening. “When the groons turn into vorns, you stop twitching. You learn that the chaos happens, and the only thing you can do is, as my bondmate says, roll with it.”

“You have a bondmate?” the Prime asked, slightly surprised. He hadn't expected this rather strict mech to have a bondmate. “Is he on this base?”

“Yes. In fact, you have already met him.”

“We have?” Ironhide asked, skimming back through the memory files of the day, trying to pick out the one mech who could possibly be the black and white's bondmate. A few mechs stood out – Red Alert, the Twins – but they all seemed to be taken (Inferno seemed awfully protective and worried about Red Alert) or just plain wrong (the Twins with Prowl? It didn't compute). 

Prowl didn't get to answer, though, because a sleek, slightly scuffed, golden felinoid was slinking toward them, somewhat dejected. The black and white Praxian knelt so he was closer to Steeljaw's level. 

“Steeljaw. Sitrep.”

“Ravage got away,” the feline growled, shaking his mane out as he said it. “He jumped off me when the other mechs came and got back into the vents. Managed to get out. We checked over the databanks, and we're pretty sure he didn't get anything before falling on Prime's head, and we're sure he didn't get anything after. But he got away, and we're not sure why he was here in the first place.”

“Very well,” Prowl said, standing. “Pay Ratchet a visit to get those scrapes cleaned up, then go to Blaster and get some recharge. I will put you on leave for the next orn. Good orn, Steeljaw.”

“Good orn, Prowl. Thanks.”

With a nod, Prowl and his group continued on, while the Cassette moved on toward the Med Bay. Barely a breem of walking later, they arrived at the officer's quarters, and Prowl showed the Prime and his guards to one of the larger, empty quarters reserved for visiting commanders, as rarely as that happened. 

“There's a berth room through there for you, Prime,” the base commander said as he showed the mechs around the room. “The washrack is through that door there, and I’m having the Twins deliver four collapsible berths into the main room as we speak. Now, if that is all, I will take my leave of you and see you in the morning.”

“Very well, Prowl,” the Prime said, nodding to the tactician. “We will see you in the morning.”

Prowl left the room, and the visitors (as soon as the Twins had come and gone) settled in to recharge.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
Word Count: 1080

In Which Rest is Interrupted and Chaos Ensues

Optimus jolted roughly from his peaceful recharge at Ironhide's poke to his side, arm transforming instantly into a cannon and whirring to life before his optics even clicked on. 

With a loud vent, the Prime deactivated the cannon. What war did to a mech...

“Ya might wanna leave that on, Prime. An alert's been sounded. 'Cons've been detected a quarter joor out. Everyone's bein' called t' a briefing. Prowl told me that we weren't needed, but...”

“Lead the way, Ironhide,” the Prime rumbled, keeping the cannon on standby. Ironhide, grinning, led the way from the room.

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

A breem later, they were surrounded by a familiar chaos. The organized chaos of an army preparing for battle. 

The Prime stood with his guards inside the doorway to the Command Center, watching as Prowl expertly handed out assignments, mechs manned the scanners and communications consoles, and mechs rushed about performing their assigned tasks. Mechs chattered and smiled as they worked, looking at home and content, if busy. 

It was familiar, but alien at the same time. Battles back on Cybertron, in Iacon, or any other base, or even on the moons or any more tactically important off-planet base, everything would be serious, and the mood would be dour. Here, everyone seemed to have perked up, and the excitement was tangible in both the air and the EM fields of the mechs present. 

Eventually, though, Prowl noticed the observers. “Prime. I told Ironhide we had this covered.”

“Perhaps, Prowl,” the Prime said, optics sparkling, “but I believed this to be a better time for inspection than regular old drills.”

Prowl took a klik to think about that before nodding and commanding the Prime and his entourage to keep back. Then he turned to his mechs, now rather still, and the large screen behind them, which displayed the Decepticon's and the base's location. The purple dot marking the enemy forces was very close now. 

The base commander straightened, doorwings stiffening. “Mechs. Let us show the Decepticons why, exactly, the name 'the Pit' has stuck to this Primus-forsaken base. Autobots, roll out!” the tactician commanded in a calm, even tone. A few snarls and cheers met his order, and there was a rush for the door.

Less than a breem later, Optimus, Ironhide, and the other guards were alone. Venting heavily, the Prime followed the horde running for the main exit. “I have a feeling,” the Matrix-bearer said to his closest friend as they walked, “that we are in for a rude awakening.”

“Now what gives ya that idea?” the ancient black mech grumbled, activating his cannons. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Optimus's prediction was, as it turned out, very correct. At first, the battle seemed to be as chaotic and disorganized as any, what with Soundwave blocking transmissions. Mechs ran across the battlefield, shooting at anything that had the opposite sides' symbol. Loud shouts, some of pain, some of glee (and those were easy to assign to the Twins), massive clouds of dust and debris and fire, and brilliant flashes of laser fire. 

Then there was a shout across the Autobot battle comm channel. ::I got him out! The lines are open!:: Blaster cried, and the Prime could see Prowl's barely there, yet still vicious grin from where he and his guards stood well back from the fighting. 

::Brilliant. Good job, Blaster. Now. Twins. Take out the Seekers. Minibots, go north. Hound, Trailbreaker, go up the center, get them distracted. Bluestreak, cover fire down the middle. ::

The commands continued on, steady, ever changing, never leaving a mech to fend for himself. The Twins launched themselves into the air, latching onto the Seekers wheeling above, who immediately left off on raining fire down on the Autobots in favor of attempting to dislodge the red and yellow ground-pounders. Trailbreaker and Hound did as directed, placing holograms and forcefields at random, stopping, distracting, and frightening the already disorganized and chaotic forces. Optimus watched, stunned, as the tide of the battle turned in mere moments. 

Then another surprise. ::Got th' charges placed, Prowler,:: a cheery voice lilted over the comms. Jazz's sleek alt form could be seen racing around the edge of the battlefield, dust rising in his wake.

With that, Prowl flicked his doorwings and called out across the comm. ::Autobots, fall back in order!::

Immediately, the colorful Autobot forces pulled back in a rippling wave of mechs. The Decepticons, both drones and mechs, paused, confused, as their enemies disappeared. Then, all pit broke loose. 

Explosions, in, around, in front of, and behind the purple-marked forces blasted through the mechs' thick battle armor. Decepticon lines fell, the soldiers obliterated under the onslaught of fire and shrapnel. The Autobot forces watched calmly as Soundwave called the retreat. 

Optimus scanned the retreating forces. Less than a tenth of the original attacking force was leaving now, and all of them injured. 

The Prime and his guards watched, silent, as the Autobots, with only one serious injury (a badly strained knee joint on Sideswipe, courtesy of an angry Seeker and the hard ground), the rest of the troops with only superficial damage, returned, bantering, to their base. Optimus led his guards back as well, following on the tail end of the group of bots. 

::Prime... What...::

::That was the fastest rout I’ve ever seen,:: the Prime said over the comm, glad once again of his mask. It was unPrimely to gape. 

::These mechs,:: Ironhide said, optics wide, ::despite being insane, might just be the right ones.::

::They are. I told you, the Matrix is... happy with them. And after that, I have no doubt in their combat abilities, or how well they listen to a commander... I believe that I will make my announcement tonight.::

::Good. The sooner you do that, the sooner we can get back home.::

“And win the war” went unsaid between the two, but they were both thinking it. Nodding slowly, the Prime opened a comm line to the base commander. 

::Prowl. Prime here.::

::Prime. What can I do for you?::

::You can call a meeting for tonight. I have an announcement I wish to make to the entire base.::

::That will not be a problem. The mechs often throw a party after a particularly successful battle. Is making your announcement during the party acceptable?::

::Yes, that will do, Prowl. Thank you.::

::Sir.::

The comm line closed, and the Prime turned back to smile at his old friend. Ironhide nodded gruffly back, a grin twitching at his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6  
Word Count: 1075

In Which There is a Party and Prime Gets Drunk

The party was organized with surprising efficiency. Mechs scrambled for supplies and reorganized the Rec Room so there was a dance floor in the center and a music booth in one corner. The lights were muted, and there was a pyramid of high grade cubes (“Contraband,” Prowl rumbled under his exvents as he passed it with the Prime) on a table set to the side of the door. 

It was shaping up to be one heck of a party. The Prime, Prowl, and Ironhide had claimed a table in the corner of the Rec Room to watch as the finishing touches were added to the room to get it ready for the party. Then, the mechs of the base started filing in. 

“Prime,” the black and white said, then nodded to the music booth, and the small stage behind it. “You had best make your announcement now, before the party starts and is impossible to stop.”

Just as Prowl finished, there was a loud screech, and the music started. Loud, pounding, victorious music that filled the audios and spark. 

“Too late,” Prowl practically shouted into the Prime's audio. “Jazz and Blaster will only turn this off if the Decepticons attack.”

The Prime shook his helm. “That is fine, Prowl. I will make my announcement in the morning. However, in the meantime...” The large mech walked over to the table of high-grade and picked up two cubes, one of which he kept, the other he handed to the base commander. “Let us have fun.”

Prowl eyed the cube warily for a long moment. Then a small silver form appeared at his elbow. “Drink it, Prowler! It ain't gonna hurt ya!” 

The tactician turned his golden glare on the silver saboteur beside him. Then he vented and knocked back a drink. The saboteur's grin widened. 

“See? 'S good for ya.”

Prowl blinked once, then looked at the cube. “This is actually rather good. Who made it?”

“Sides,” Jazz said, turning toward the red frontliner, who, repaired quickly after the battle, was currently standing and talking with his twin and Bluestreak near the door. 

Prowl nodded, a gleam in his optics that made the Prime want to back away. “I see,” he said, and something in the flat tone made Optimus want to turn tail and run. 

He didn't, though, instead retracting his mask and taking a swig of the high-grade. 

And promptly coughed, clearing his intakes of the charged liquid. Prowl glanced at him, amused. 

“Holy Primus, that's strong. I haven't had anything like that since... before I was Prime, actually,” Optimus mused, holding the cube up to examine it. Ironhide, standing somewhere behind his elbow, stepped up to take his own cube and promptly downed half of it. 

“Slag, that's good stuff,” the black mech huffed, blinking. 

“You do not have high-grade on Cybertron?”

Optimus, startled from his distracted musing, looked down at the black and white Praxian. “We do have high-grade, but not very much of it.”

“And what we do have ain't all that good, either,” Ironhide rumbled, taking another swig. 

The Prime nodded. “Yes. Very few brewers survived. Where did Sideswipe learn to make high-grade?”

“Don't know,” Jazz said, tilting his helm to the side. “He ain't told anyone, an' Ah don' think he's gonna.”

With a nod, the Prime took another drink, then grinned at his companions. “Go have fun, my friends. I will make my announcement in the morning. As it is, please, do not waste the chance of a good night on me.”

Prowl hesitantly tilted his helm in acquiescence, then allowed himself to be tugged away by Jazz. 

Optimus finished his cube and grabbed another. 

“Well, Prime,” Ironhide said as he stepped up next to his leader, “enjoy the night. I’m off to drink myself into recharge.” Optimus looked at his friend worriedly, and the black mech chuckled, waving him off. “Nothing wrong. Just been too long since I got properly overcharged.”

The Prime chuckled and patted his guard on the shoulder. “Go have fun, Ironhide.”

“As the Prime commands.”

And the black mech was gone, swallowed by the surrounding horde of partying mechs. 

After that, things got blurry for the Prime. He vaguely remembered dancing on a table, perhaps with a partner at his side, loud encouragement echoing in his audios. He had a fuzzy recollection of a strange game, involving awkward questions and shots of high-grade. He could recall the faintest image of him laughing as he sang one of the old drinking songs favored by the dock workers in Tyger Pax, and others listening and laughing along. 

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

“Ooh...” the Prime moaned as his systems onlined. There was too much energy thrumming through his circuits, creating an impossible helm-ache. 

A hangover, in other words. 

“Hiya, Prime!” a too cheery, too loud voice exclaimed, and the Prime moaned again. 

“Jazz... mute it...”

“O' course, Prime.”

For a few very long breems, nothing was said and neither of the mechs moved. Then the Prime rolled over and onlined his optics to see a bright blue visor staring directly into his face, a mischievous grin settled beneath it. 

With a yelp, Optimus scrambled backwards, only to crash into the wall that the berth he was on was pushed up against. Jazz's grin broadened as he slid off the edge of the berth. 

“Don' worry, Prime, we didn' do nothin' last night. Well, you didn'. Ah had mah own partner. Ah jus' dragged ya t' mah room t' keep ya outta trouble. An' I don' mean you causin' trouble, but there're plenty a' mechs on this here base who'd take 'dvantage of a situation.”

The Prime, processors reeling, sat up slowly and swung his feet off the berth. “I... I see?”

“Good! Door's unlocked, but it'll lock b'hind ya. Leave whenever ya're ready. Uh... Prowler knew ya prolly wouldn' be up fer that 'nouncement right 'way. Said he scheduled it fer t'night. That okay?”

“Ah... wonderful. Tell him I said thank you.”

“Will do, Prime!” 

With that, the too-cheerful mech left the room. 

The Prime groaned once again and lay back down on the berth. He wasn't needed now, so the world could continue on without him until this infernal helm-ache went away!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7  
Word Count: 1754

In Which an Announcement is Made and a Base is Destroyed

The Prime spent most of the day dozing in Jazz's berth. Ironhide had come in once to check on his leader, and he hadn't been in much better condition. He brought word that most of the base was in a similar state, including the Prime's other guards (who Optimus called right away to tell them they had the orn off) and that most mechs had been put on leave until later that night, when Optimus was scheduled to make his announcement. 

A joor before the announcement was scheduled (Prowl had pinged him the time), Optimus forced himself out of the berth, helm-ache mostly gone, and straggled down to Prowl's office. The base commander should be alerted to the contents of the announcement before said announcement. It was unbecoming of a commander to be unaware of what was happening in his base. 

Smiling under his facemask, the Prime mused what the mechs' reactions would be. Some, he knew, would be happy. He could tell that, while everyone was content here, not all were happy. Some would absolutely hate it. Red Alert was the main example for that school of thought. The Prime had not spent much time with the Security Director, but he could tell that the red and white mech was attached to his base, and the security network it contained. 

They would all be stunned, though. 

By then he was at Prowl's office's door, and he pinged for entrance. The door whooshed open, and he stepped in. 

Then froze. 

Prowl was working diligently at a datapad, scribbling away with a stylus. He looked up at the Prime's arrival. “Hello, sir,” he said, then returned to the datapad. 

That wasn't what stopped Optimus, though. 

Lounging across the tactician's desk like he owned it was a sleek sliver saboteur. Jazz's visor was dim, and his engine was purring like a cybercat. He grinned up at the Prime, visor brightening. “'Sup?” he asked, before letting his visor dim and helm fall back to the desk. 

“I... I...”

Prowl looked back up at the stuttering Autobot Commander. “Jazz is my bondmate. He enjoys laying on my desk, though I do not know why, considering he has a perfectly usable berth in our quarters.”

“But Ah told ya, Prowler. Th' Prime was in our berth! 'S why we stayed here overnight.”

“Nevertheless, there are plenty of other places you can relax, Jazz.”

“Yeah, but none've 'em've got such a good view.”

Prowl just glared down at the saboteur before turning back to Optimus. “Can I help you, Prime?”

“I... Uh... Yes, actually. I wished to inform you of the matter of my announcement.”

“Ah, yes. I apologize that you were unable to make it last night.”

“It is okay, Prowl. This, at least, allows me to tell you what to expect.”

“Yes, sir, it does,” the base commander said, setting the datapad down. Jazz's visor brightened, and he turned slightly to look at the Prime. 

“Prowl, do you remember when I first got here, and I told you this was not just a routine inspection?”

“Yes, I do remember.”

The Prime vented. “Many of Sentinel Prime's command element were killed in the same explosion that deactivated him. I have been looking for replacements. A time ago, I came across this base's record, and I remembered it when the issue of commanders came up in a discussion between myself and Ironhide.

“Prowl, I wish this entire base to come back to Cybertron and become those who staff the main base of operations, and I wish you to become my Second in Command.”

Prowl stared. Jazz gaped. The Prime looked on hopefully. 

Then there was a pop! and a thin stream of smoke trickled from Prowl's helm. His optics went white, then black, and he fell forward. Jazz snapped out of his stupor in time to keep the tactician's chevron from crashing into the table.

Optimus Prime was stunned as well, but for a slightly different reason. “Oh, Primus, what happened?”

“Nothin' major, Prime, relax. His battle computer 'n logic circuits are a bit sensitive. He jus' wasn' 'spectin' that. Heck, I wasn' either. You're tellin' th' truth?”

Slightly amused, the Prime smiled under his battle mask as he stepped forward to help hold the base commander up. “Do I look to be one to tell jokes such as that? And... what should we do for Prowl?”

“Nothin'. He'll come outta it 'n a mo'.”

And, as though prompted by his bondmate's words, Prowl groaned and lifted a hand to his chevron. “What happened?”

“I... broke some startling news. I apologize, Prowl.”

The tactician sat up, and the two mechs previously supporting him stepped away. “You can tell me. I will not crash this time.”

Shooting a curious glance at the saboteur, the Prime frowned. Jazz answered his unspoken question. “Th' news won' make him crash 'gain. Fer most things, 't only happ'ns once. Then he's good.”

“Very well. Prowl, I wish for you and your mechs to come and serve me in Iacon, and I want you to be my Second.”

Prowl's optics went a little white, but he did not crash again. After a few breems and a few blinks, the tactician nodded. “Very well. When do you want us in Iacon?”

The Prime smiled. “As soon as possible.”

“Of course. I will order the mechs to pack up after your announcement, and we will leave with you.”

“You are ready to leave? That quickly?”

Prowl shrugged. “For a very long time, there were no Decepticons anywhere near this sector. The mechs were getting... jittery. So I set them to building interstellar shuttles.”

Optimus blinked and Jazz giggled. “Those were interestin' groons. Everyone runnin' 'round with supplies 'n directions... Heh. Sideswipe even stopped prankin' fer a while.”

“Indeed. Well, Prime, the mechs will be assembling soon. Do you wish to proceed to the Rec Room?”

“I do.”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

Chaos broke out after the Prime's announcement. A few mechs jumped up and immediately protested (Red Alert among them, the Prime was amused to notice). A few other mechs stood and immediately countered those protesting, their glee at the prospect of returning to Cybertron obvious. Others sat, stunned. Others still turned to their neighbors and started talking and gesturing wildly, either excited to be going home or angry at the idea of leaving what had become home. 

Then Prowl let out a blast of white noise over everyone's comms. The bots in the room flinched, then shifted uncomfortably and turned to the base commander. 

“Everyone, I know this is unexpected. I know it is surprising. However, the Prime, and Cybertron, need us. We have proven stronger than our commanders believed. We have proven to be better than Sentinel Prime thought us to be. Now, the new Prime, Optimus, is willing to believe what his predecessor did not. He is willing to give us a chance where we will be able to really make a difference. We have not been able to do much while stuck out here. Now we have been handed the opportunity to go back to Cybertron, our home, and prove that we can do something. That we are worth what Sentinel did not believe us to be worth. I do not know about you, but I intend to take this chance offered and go with it as far as I can.” Prowl turned from the now silent crowd and knelt in front of Optimus. The Prime shifted nervously, still uncomfortable with the subservient attitude most mechs presented him. 

“Prime. I swore my allegiance to your predecessor. By all technicalities, it transfers on to you. However, presented the opportunity, I would like to confirm what I swore to Sentinel. Optimus Prime, I, Prowl, swear to serve and protect you and your beliefs with my spark. I swear myself to the Autobot cause, and all we stand for. Until all are one.”

With that, Prowl stood. “Mechs, pack your belongings. We are going to put those shuttles to good use. We're going home.”

The tactician left the room, but the cheers and whoops that followed him echoed through the whole base. The few mechs still nervous no longer protested. 

Every mech in the room followed Prowl's example, even Ironhide and the other guards, all of them re-swearing themselves to the Prime, making said Prime very uncomfortable, grateful, and rather proud of his mechs. 

After that, everyone wandered to their rooms, chatting and smiling, to pack their things and get their shuttle assignments. Prowl commed Wheeljack, Perceptor, Hoist, Grapple, and Jazz and told them to set charges before they left, set so that no bit of the base would remain once they had gone. They did so, after clearing out their rooms. Everything personal or valuable was packed onto the three large shuttles sitting on a covered landing pad, and the mechs settled in for their last night on base. 

Almost half way through the recharge cycle, Prowl found Optimus Prime gazing out a large viewing window at the rocky, scorched landscape of the small moon. 

“Am I asking too much of you, Prowl?” the Prime asked softly. “To come to chaos and leave this peace behind?”

Prowl gave a small ghost of a smile. “It is our home, too, Prime. We want a chance to defend it. All of us, even those who protested.”

“You... are you sure?”

“Very. Do not worry yourself. We all did sign up as Autobots. We were not sent here of our own will. We wish to fight.”

“I hope you are right, Prowl.”

“I am.”

.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.oOo.

The shuttles launched early the next orn. The deserted base was detonated behind them, leaving nothing but a black mark on the moon's surface. 

The voyage took two orns. By the time Cybertron came into view, everyone was ready to get off the shuttles. As big as they were, the mechs were used to having a whole base to loiter in, and a whole moon to race over. The fliers were especially jittery, unused to being confined in such a small space. Add to that the fact that the mechs were split between three shuttles, and friends had been split up, mechs had had quite enough of space travel. 

But staring at their home planet out of the viewscreen in the control deck of the largest shuttle, the Prime couldn't help but grin. Prowl was at his right. Jazz was at his left. He had three ships of loyal mechs, ready to kick some Decepticon aft. 

He was ready to take up the fight.

The 'Cons wouldn't know what hit them.


End file.
